


new and sharp and with many teeth

by scorpiod



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Age Difference, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Carlos being a Creeper, Corruption of a Minor, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Evil Mentor Carlos, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Praise Kink, Statutory Rape, Underage Sex, Vampire Sex, general vampire fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: The way Carlos looks at him makes Scott feel half sick to his stomach and half desperate for more.Or post s1 AU, in which Scott gets Carlos out of the labyrinth and takes off with him.





	new and sharp and with many teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).

> Dubious consent refers to the incredibly questionable relationship between Scott and Carlos. YMMV, though. I tried to tag for everything in this, but I may have missed some stuff. 
> 
> Title taken from the bible quote, _Isaiah 41:15, "See, I will make you into a threshing sledge, new and sharp, with many teeth. You will thresh the mountains and crush them, and reduce the hills to chaff._

“Carlos!” Scott shouts, dragging him through the twister. His body is a heavy dead weight in his arms and if he didn't know culebras turn to dust upon death, he’d think Carlos was already dead.

“Carlos, c’mon, don't be dead,” Scott says, not quite pleading, not that he would admit that. He didn't want Carlos to be the only adult left in his life but it was looking that way. 

He doesn't think Carlos was in the labyrinth itself—some waiting room, maybe, some other rocky corridor, hidden deep in the underworld of the twister, but he didn't think it mattered. Carlos looks just as dead otherwise, not responding.

Scott drops him to the ground, tired of carrying him, lost. Carlos doesn't move, just flops to the hard, dust filled ground. 

Behind him, he can hear whispers, shouts and the occasional screaming. He thinks its been a day since he last saw Kate, but it could be longer. Time gets all twisted all down here. He doesn't know who's screaming. 

“_Carlos_,” Scott hisses at him, as he leans down to shake him, grab him by the arms, grab his face and try to make him wake up.

At last, Carlos makes a choked, weak growling noise and before Scott can react, he grabs Scott's arm and tears into the meat of it, ripping right through his jacket.. 

Scott screams and kicks at him, aiming towards his chest

(_Almost immediately, he is back in the catacombs, lost forever as a monster grabbed him, pulled him into the darkness and devoured him, sharp fangs ripping into him_)

Scott aims a kick at his face and that works, pushing Carlos flat on his back—panting, eyes glazed over, face scaled and bloody and sloppy. 

“I should just leave you here, you motherfucker—” Scott growls—the wound in his arm was closing, flesh reknitting itself back together, but he feels woozy anyway, like he may fall over on the ground with Carlos. Scott steadies himself on the side of the walls, listening for other sounds. Other monsters in the dark

Carlos reaches out, hand grasping his wrist, clawed black fingernails out but his grip weak. Scott can pull away, if he just shoves, but he doesn't. Carlos’ eyes are glassy and unseeing and weaker than normal--not at all the monster that tore him apart. 

“Please,” he rasps. “Please.” 

Scott rips away from him, panting. He shoves his palm into his mouth to keep from screaming, his own sharp teeth digging into the skin, bloodying it when he wouldn't have just a day ago. 

Scott takes a breath he doesn't need and then reaches for Carlos. 

They find a way out. It's surprisingly easy to carry him on his shoulders. 

***

He dumps Carlos in the bathtub. 

Not _his_ bathtub, of course. No, that's all the way back in Bethel and Scott is trying not to think of that, because who knows when he’ll see Bethel again and all those implications are too far wide reaching to even process right now. 

No, the best they can do is a shitty motel, closest to the twister, further down the road. Somehow he managed to get them a room, with Carlos hanging on his shoulders.

Instead, Scott stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He turned the light on, force of habit, but the fluorescents hurt his eyes, glaring brightly and loud, so he turns them off. He can see just fine without them.

Looks back at Carlos, who looks straight up _dead_. His normally tanned skin is ashen, unnaturally pale, and he's not moving, not breathing, eyes shut. Scott can’t see an injury on him but Carlos had been groaning in pain when he carried him out, all the way here. 

Looks back at the mirror to find his own face. His clothes are starting to smell and they're covered in splotches of blood. His hoodie had kept him from burning up in the sun but it smelled like salt, blood, and desert sand, so thick and cloying it stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

Scott presses his fingers to his neck, looking for a wound, a mark, a sign that showed Carlos was there, bit him and made him this. But it was all healed up, like it never happened. Like this wasn't his body. 

There is still a smear of blood across his mouth, from where he sunk his teeth in his dad. 

Scott runs his fingers over his forehead, trying to find the scales. It was easy to make them come out in the twister. It was easy to bite his dad. 

Scott shudders, thinking of the explosion of hot blood in his mouth, his nightmarish teeth, his dad’s horrified face— 

“Kid,” Carlos says. His voice is strained, like he's in pain, which is a bit terrifying to think about. 

Scott nearly jumps but he swallows his fear and turns to face Carlos. He doesn't move, just lays there in the tub, eyes closed. He isn't even complaining like he expected him too. Lying like that, it makes him look vulnerable—Carlos, terrifying vampire, Santanico’s (ex) boyfriend, occasional border security guard—here, at his mercy. 

Scott thinks he likes it, the same way he likes the thought of having a gun in his backpack, _just in case_, same way he liked to imagine killing— 

“Yeah?” Scott breathes. 

Carlos’ lips pull into the smallest of smiles, his eyes still closed. “Thanks for getting me out, Scott.” The way he says his name, low and rough, made Scott shiver.

Scott shrugs. “Seemed like the thing to do,” he mutters noncommittally, then turns his head to the side, closing his eyes.

_Carlos needs me_, he tells himself. _I saved him. Me. _

Carlos makes a _tsk_ sound.

“What?” Scott snaps, his voice a little too high.

“They rejected you, didn't they?” Carlos says. He opens his eyes now, lazily gazing at him. He did not seem to care that he was at Scott's mercy. 

Scott sucks in a breath. 

“Was it your father? Your sister? Did they tell you there was no place for you with them, being what you are?” Carlos’ voice is soft, like a priest in a confessional. “Did they try to kill you?” 

Scott opens his mouth, a _shut up_ on his lips but his throat constricts on itself, closing in. He makes a low, ragged noise. 

“Scott...”

“Dad tried to stake me,” Scott manages out and the more he talks, the easier it is to say, like admitting what happened is burying a stupid teenage boy from Bethel, or setting him free. “So I bit him.”

Fantasies of Kate and Dad with fangs had danced in his head—going from town to town feeding, bound together in blood in a way he never could have been before. 

Stupid to think that would ever work. 

“I wanted to turn him. He didn't. Want to, I mean. Kate called me a monster.”

His eyes burn and Scott wipes away angry tears before they fall, ducking his head. The thought of Carlos seeing him crying feels almost like being flayed alive—too revealing, entirely too much. 

“Did it work?” Carlos asks. His dead eyes look bright now, riveted, staring at Scott with an intensity he's never seen from anyone before. It makes Scott’s hair stand on end, the way it felt in the bowels of the twister, and Carlos’ glowing eyes following him from corridor to corridor. 

The way Carlos looks at him has a way of making Scott feel half sick to his stomach and half desperate for more. 

Scott shakes his head. “I don't know what happened. Found him staked in the twister. He would have turned to dust if he actually turned right? So.” He lingers on that thought, wondering if he should have done that too. If maybe there was always something wrong with him, that he wanted to live. “I suppose he took himself out.”

_I don't know where Kate is._

And Kate doesn't care where he is. 

That thought settles in his bones like a cold hard truth and it doesn't even hurt to think about it. The more he stays here, staring at Carlos, the less it feels like anything. 

Carlos is awake now. His eyes are dark and his skin is bruised. He looks very tired and dead, paler than he should be, but that didn't stop the smug smirk on his face. “I hate to say I told you so,” he says, in a sing song voice. “But I told you so.”

“Fuck off,” Scott says and there it goes, a snarl under his breath. He could just leave. Walk out this motel and leave Carlos for dead in a bathtub. He deserves it. Carlos is the one who _needs_ him now, not the other way around. 

Scott doesn't move. Carlos laughs—a full on cackle. It grates in his ears. It's suddenly far too loud for this small room. 

“You got some _huevos_, kid. I bring you into this world and you're already trying to make new culebras.”

“You didn't _bring_—”

“I gave you my venom, _guey_,” he says. “I take credit.”

Scott shakes his head, but it's too late, he can already feel panic rising up in his chest, panic and something else, churning in his belly. He shoves himself physically away from the sink, from Carlos, dragging himself out of the bathroom. 

“Hey,” Carlos says. His voice is a low throaty growl. Scott wants to hide. “Get us something to eat.”

Scott's hungry, that's the feeling in his belly, uncomfortable and curling inside him. It doesn't feel like human hunger, stomach growling. It's something else, deeper. 

“It's daylight,” Scott rasps. _Don't you mean someone?_

Carlos sighs. “Then wait for dusk. Can you do that for me, Scott?”

He can feel Carlos’ gaze raking over him. It makes him want to cover up, more than he already was. It makes him want to hide and pull the hoodie over his head, insides sick and swimming and flopping all over. 

“Yeah,” he manages to exhale out. “Yeah, I can.”

“Good,” Carlos mutters, and he slips back into sleep, eyes closing. 

Scott's alone. It's almost a relief but as he crawls under the covers of the bed—hiding and ducking the stray rays of light that seep in through the cracks in the window—he's hit with a wave of longing so fierce and powerful it's like being punched in the gut. 

His eyes burn and this time, he lets tears drop, curling his body into himself. 

***

Scott wakes up when he feels dusk settling over the sky, like a siren call that pulls him from sleep. He's never woken up before like that.

_C’mon, ándale_, he can feel Carlos say, as if he spoke it into his mind. God, he hopes not. _We’re hungry._

Scott can feel something that's not exactly hunger bubbling under his skin. It feels more like a craving, but stronger, more physical, down to his bones. Stronger than the squirmy eels feeling in his chest earlier.

His body is weak, sluggish to move. He needs a shower but Carlos was there and he didn't want to face him without a meal. 

The thought of taking a shower in front of Carlos makes his skin feel too tight over his body. 

“Hey Scott,” Carlos calls out, behind him, from the bathroom. His voice is throaty and Scott doesn't entirely hear it out loud—more like fingers pushing up against the walls of his mind. 

Scott turns around, peeking his head into the open bathroom, and going no further. Carlos’ eyes are golden, and he can see scales run down his face, disappearing into under his clothes as they dip down his chest. Like a cobra, just lounging around, waiting to strike. 

“Remember,” he hisses, fangs out in a smile. “You're the scariest thing out there.”

Scott nods, not thinking, and shuts the door. 

***

The first person he tries to eat is the clerk. Thinks it'd be easy to trick him to the motel room. His Spanish is crap, but that might be a bonus—playing up the helpless tourist angle. 

He can't make himself do it. The clerk is an old man with dark skin who looks like he's worked every day in his life and even though Scott can hear his beating heart, calling to him, his eyes are warm and his hair is white and wispy, with age spots and fragile veins in his hands. 

He can't do it, he can't—stares at the man for an uncomfortably long time before turning away, almost sprinting out of there. 

Scott almost goes straight back to his room, but he can't go back empty handed. He can't face Carlos with nothing. 

The hotel was some roadside piece of shit, smack in the middle of desert by the side of the road, with nothing but cacti surrounding them, and a gas station not too far down. At night, the desert was softer, more of a blanket than oppressing heat. The stars are brighter now, Scott notices. 

In the distance, he can see town lights. A small town. He could walk it. Hitchhike. Bring Carlos a trucker. 

That sounds absurd, Scott thinks and he sinks down, squatting on the ground in the parking lot with his hands in his eyes, trying to block everything out. _I can't do this_, his traitorous mind thinks and he starts thinking about Kate again and Dad and Mom and even the goddamn Gecko brothers and how badly he wishes he just stayed in the fucking RV. _I can't do this_. 

If he closes his eyes, Scott could hear everything. Little animals in hiding holes, the soft buzz of the neon sign and flickering lights, the slow breathing of some bodies in rooms. Maybe he could force the door open. Just snatch someone.

His cheeks burn. He tastes salt in his mouth. Scott realizes he's both crying and bit his tongue at the same time. 

_Shit._

“You okay?”

Scott stands up to his feet and nearly stumbles as he does so, moving too fast on coltish legs. A man is standing in front of him—more like, was looming above him, just a little bit ago. He has clean, close cropped brown hair and soft eyes. White American. Well-dressed but not too well-dressed. Not wearing a suit like the Gecko brothers did, but a nice soft blue button up under a brown jacket and slacks. Older looking than Carlos, but not that old. How didn't Scott hear him coming? He should have heard him coming. 

The man is still staring at him with furrowed brow. “Where is your family?” he asks, chuckling a bit. “Are you here with friends, some spring break thing?”

_It's fucking summer_, Scott thinks. He can't get a read on him. Good Samaritan or creepy pedo? He's usually better at this. 

But he can already feel himself being dismissed, as some dumb teenager, some stupid little kid, and something just settles in his head, snaps into place. 

“My parents are dead,” he says. He feels the phantom sting of Kate’s fists on his chest. “I don't have a family.”

The man's face twists. His dark eyes flicker. His face looks soft and handsome, Scott thinks, and shakes the thought away. “Jesus, that sucks. How old are you? Are you here by yourself?”

“Sixteen,” he says, playing with the cords of his hoodie. Kate's face, twisted in fury, dances in his head. “I had someone, but they left.”

Scott thinks it's concern the makes the man frown, but he's not sure. Richie Gecko showed up at his door asking to keep the volume down. Can't trust anyone these days. 

“You should call someone,” he says carefully. His nostrils flare. 

“You're gonna deport me, huh?” Scott says, a grim smile on his face. 

“No!” The man protests immediately. He takes a step forward. Scott takes a step back. “No, I just.” He stops, trails off. Debating with himself. Scott keeps an eye on his face. 

“Do you want to come back to my room?” he asks, finally. 

The question hangs there, in the air, awful and loaded. The man’s eyes glance over Scott—full body glance, he thinks, but he can't tell. It's not the first time he's been checked out by a guy way too old for him. But maybe he's seeing things. 

Scott can't tell anything about the guy’s intentions, if he's a Good Samaritan, who spotted a crying teenager and wanted to help, or if he's looking to kidnap a kid with nowhere to go. 

_If you were a cowboy, you'd wear a black goddamn hat,_ Seth Gecko said while feeding him drinks and it was one of the few things he did that made Scott feel good about himself, knowing it was a twisted kind of compliment coming from him. 

Maybe Scott just wants him to be a bad guy, so he doesn't have to be. 

_Does it matter?_ The question sticks in his belly, as he realizes, it doesn't matter at all. 

“Okay,” Scott breathes, soft and child-like. 

Scott realizes he doesn't have to hunt for anyone. Just be himself—the scared kid he feels like, (mostly) alone in a foreign country, and someone will take the bait. 

It makes him a little sick and sicker still to realize Carlos must have known this. 

***

“I need to get stuff from my room,” Scott says softly, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

The guy is sweating as he says this, but it's a hot night. He opens his mouth to answer but delays, like he's nervous. There's something skittish in his eyes as he glances up and down Scott, behind and in front of him. 

“You can come with me,” he reassures him, as if to say, _I'm not going anywhere._

“Sure, of course,” he agrees then, smiling at Scott. 

Scott looks away. His heart is not pounding. He doesn't feel nervous, or angry, or any kind emotion he may feel when faced with murder. For the moment, he just..._wanted_ this guy, all skinny reedy forty year old body, in kind of gross ways. And blood. 

Mostly his blood. 

It's not even personal, Scott thinks, as he opens the door in the hotel. He half expects Carlos to lunge like a cobra like he did back in the Twister, but the main bed is still empty, not even a little tv running. 

He shuts the door on the guy—doesn't even know his name and doesn't care that he startled him, that he's looking at him oddly when he does that, the noise making him jump, as long as Scott can see the pulse in his throat throb and jump. 

“Just let me grab some stuff,” he says absently, heading to the bathroom. 

“Is that blood,” he asks, pointing to the slight trail in the carpet they must have left. 

Scott shrugs and finds he really doesn't care. 

“Is whoever left you coming back?” he asks, and there's a slow drag to his voice now. Sussing out the situation, catching Scott in a lie. 

Scott ignores him. He opens the bathroom door and recklessly lets it hang open. Who cares if the guy came closer, saw Carlos in the bathtub. Did any of that matter?

Scott tongues the fangs he can feel up in the roof of his mouth, just as Carlos raises his head. “Fuck, kid, I'm starving.”

“C’mon” Scott says, not really caring, “get ready,” he tells him. 

Then louder, turning to the guy— 

“Can you help my friend? He's not feeling so well.”

The guy frowns at him. The first hint of something ugly filters over his face. “You didn't say you had a friend,” he says, but he doesn't stop his stride, coming to peak at who was behind the bathroom door. He goes pale when he sees Carlos, who was doing a good job at playing opossum. 

“What the fuck happened to him?” he gasps, balking. “Is he _dead_?” He does not go past the bathroom threshold and Scott so tired of waiting, so he just— 

Bites the back of his neck. 

It's just a nip. Enough to lick a swipe of blood off his warm skin. It immediately seems to hit every square inch of his body with heat and light. Scott remembers the rank taste of those mindless culebras when he tore into them, and the hot, smoky taste of his father’s blood and how he had to force himself to stop. 

He forces himself to stop here again—the man, whose name he doesn't know or care about, jumps away, closer to the tub, gaping at him. He no longer looks like a man but a mass of living breathing blood cells. 

Carlos rises from the tub, a blood soaked, dirt covered zombie. 

Scott shoves the man backwards into his hungry arms. 

Carlos smiles, just for him, in a flash of a second, before he wraps both arms around the man, one hand covering his mouth, and tears into his throat. 

Everything happens so fast. Scott thought he'd go limp, but instead the man thrashes like a wild animal, legs kicking, arms desperately straining against Carlos’ strength. He bites Carlos hand, but Carlos has his mouth buried in the meat of his throat and he doesn't seem to notice. 

However, the constant motion loosens his grip and they fall back in the tub and Carlos does not let him go—he rips a chunk of flesh out from his throat, seems to _swallow it_ entirely, then shoves his mouth back in red exposed flesh and muscle. The man on is gurgling, making these awful choking noises, and Scott thinks he might be drunk and high or both, sounds and colors racing past him, transfixed by the death in front of him. 

Back at the twister, culebras tore through human bodies easy—limbs torn off, jaws ripped apart. Easy how people became _parts_ and _pieces_ and _splashes of blood_. It was terrifying. 

Scott is transfixed. Horrified. Hungry. No longer terrified. 

The man has gone limp, twitching every now and then, and Carlos is not stopping. Soft growls reverb from his throat. 

“Hey,” Scott hisses around his fangs. Carlos continues to feed. “Hey!” 

Pissed off, he reaches for the dying (dead?) man and tugs, but he won't budge. 

“You can't drink it _all_,” Scott whines. Stupidly, he feels like a kid again. Like when Kate got the last of the eggnog and cookies and didn't leave any for him and it's _wasn't fair_.

Scott tugs again at the corpse’s arm and hears bone snap, ligaments tear—the arm doesn't quite come off, but it hangs off his body, like a few good tears would do it. Scott makes a noise of disgust and drops the arm like it burned him. 

Carlos finally lets go, pushing the corpse to Scott carelessly, like handing off a sack of potatoes. He rises up, graceful and easy and powerful, licking the blood off his fingertips with an exaggerated moan. 

“Hey, there's still plenty left,” Carlos says. The whole lower half of his face is covered in blood. His entire face is shifts back to human, smooth skin. The crumpled human corpse is just dead weight now. There's something gross and degrading about being given leftovers, like a good dog. 

Scott snarls. “Fuck you,” he hisses, dropping the body, and charges at Carlos. 

He doesn't know what he's planning to do, he's just mad and hearing Carlos laugh at him makes him madder and he doesn't know why he ever decided to help him. 

He shoves Carlos into the wall. The tile cracks but Carlos is fine, his grin spreading. 

“I should have let you die in the twister.”

“Too late,” Carlos drawls. “You got me strong again, kid. Isn't that what you wanted?” 

Then Scott is shoved back, hard, much harder, colliding with the sink. His back flares in pain and he can hear the edges of the porcelain crack as his body collides with it. Carlos presses him hard against it and his face is too close to his now, taunting and awful and his mouth spread wide showing all his teeth. 

“Someone to look after you?”

Scott kisses him. Or rather, he lunges forward and shoves their lips together, Scott’s tongue tasting blood and then that's all he can think off—sweet blood, sharp and alive on his tongue, and it's not _fair_ that Carlos got to drink it all, he found the guy, not him. 

As kisses go, it's a rough and brutal clashing of tongue and lips. Not nice at all, except for the warmth of blood mingling with him. But it feels like a kiss, like what he thinks a kiss would be. Scott's only been kissed once in his life, very chastely, by a girl at a dance that he didn't want to go to. He doesn't know what kisses are supposed to be like. 

Carlos kisses back, for a split second—lets his mouth fall open and lets Scott lick into it for just a moment. 

Then he rips Scott away from him, one hand fisting his hair and pulling back painfully enough to make Scott cry out. 

“If that's what you wanted, you just had to say something, _cariño_.” His voice is low, sultry and mocking at the same time, and it makes Scott sick and turned on to be the target of it. “I'll even let you take a bite,” he says. 

Scott can't figure out what he wants to do. Carlos’s eyes have slipped back to soft brown instead of snake yellow, but they still seem to gaze right through him. 

Scott makes a low rumbling noise from his throat, and attacks again, pressing their mouths together. Instead of Carlos opening his mouth for him, Scott sinks his teeth in his bottom lip, moaning as both human blood and culebra blood floods into his mouth. Carlos’ hands are on his shoulders, squeezing, _encouraging_ him. He surges closer to Carlos, not caring about how Carlos ruined his life or that his family hates him, or anything else that ever bothered him, only caring about the warm taste of him. 

For a moment, there's nothing else in the world but sucking on Carlos’ lip, and then kissing him for real, bloody open mouth kisses that fed him as much as it turned him on, making his whole body come alive. 

Then Carlos’ hands urge him away, exerting pressure on his shoulders. Scott doesn't move, and Carlos pushes back harder. 

“Okay, okay, _that's enough_,” Carlos says harshly, shoving Scott off. Scott stumbles back momentarily, losing his footing, before he launches himself back at Carlos again. 

This time he goes for the throat. He wraps his limbs around Carlos, arms around his back and legs around his waist, wrapping himself around him like a snake so he can't dislodge him easy. 

This time, spurts and spurts of hot blood fill his mouth, and it's not just the taste of him that set his nerve endings on fire, it's _everything_—a shockwave of images hit him like a gut punch; flashes of Carlos in the hot sun, with a sword in hand and a chip on his shoulder, Santanico stroking his face, then his blood under her nails, Narciso forcing Carlos to his knees— 

It lasts even shorter this time—Carlos forces him away without any kindness and Scott feels himself airborne before he hits the dirty bathroom tile with a thud. He catches a glimpse of the corpse—and it's a corpse now, not a man, torn apart—cooling in the tub before Carlos is on top of him. He grabs his wrists in a vice grip over his head, pinning him down against the floor. He lays his body on top of him, straddling Scott in a perverse, intimate pose except his face is twisted with anger and scales. 

“I said _enough_,” Carlos hisses at him and Scott hisses back, some wordless noise of rage. He wants to claw at Carlos’ face and arches up into him, trying to get closer, to break his grip, _something_—but Carlos is too strong and worse yet, Scott realizes he's hard in his jeans against Carlos’ leg, an aching shuddering friction rolling through him whenever he moves, wriggles, trying to escape.

Carlos is hard, too, can feel his cock pressing against his thigh. He doesn't know who got turned on first, a vicious, twisted feedback loop of arousal and hunger and anger between them. 

“Is that what you want?” Carlos whispers softly above him, soft sibilant syllable leaving his mouth. His mouth curves in an ugly smile that makes Scott feel like shit. “I didn't know you thought of me that way.” 

The taunt makes him angrier, but trying to push back against him just sends sparks of heat through him, his cock inadvertently grinding against him, leaves him panting. 

“I'm hungry,” Scott protests instead, straining against his grip. Hungry and horny and angry and _everything else_ overwhelming him. Carlos’ hands on his wrists feels like his bones may crack and pop when he pushes too hard. He's stuck here. 

“You know, you can eat the rest of him,” Carlos says. Like it's that easy. “I left the rest of him for you.”

Scott shakes his head and rubs his cock against Carlos’ thigh. He doesn't _want_ to, it just keeps happening every time he tries to shove against him and his body has turned protest and anger into a desperate need to get off. 

“Oh. You only want the sexy stuff,” Carlos says. 

“Fuck you,” Scott gasps, arching his hips, straining, aching, and then comes in his pants like a fucking stupid kid. He finally stops fighting, his head hitting the gross floor, hips and legs slumping on the ground. The fight goes all out of him. 

“Fuck,” Scott pants. He's sticky with blood and come and the body is starting to rot in the Mexican heat, he can smell it. _Fuck_ eating him. 

“Jesus,” Carlos says, after a horrible, uncomfortable silence. Carlos is still hard. “You really are sixteen.”

“Just leave me alone,” Scott murmurs, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes. He wants to get up, hide under the covers and pretend the last few days never happened.

Carlos chuckles. He lets him go, Scott’s wrists burning with his touch. Carlos’ body weight shifts off him. Then Scott hears the sound of a zipper. 

Scott turns back and his eyes snap open. Carlos was kneeling, rocking back a bit. His bloody hand was on his cock, zipper undone just enough to pull it out, and for a moment, Scott couldn't take his eyes off it. 

It wasn't so much that it was particularly big or impressive, though Carlos seemed bigger than him. It wasn't even that he'd never seen anyone else's dick before—even god fearing Bethel had streakers, locker room competitions, and guys at school being dumb shits. 

This felt different though, right in his face, like half threat and half invite. Scott was drawn to the grotesque sight of Carlos’ bloody hand on his dick, leaving smears of red as he slowly and quite casually stroked it. He kept staring at the dark head of his cock and the way it curved up, just a little, the dark thatch of pubic hair at the base.

“You don't get to judge me,” Carlos snaps at him. “You just came from a few seconds of rutting like an animal.”

Scott licks the blood on his lips. He keeps staring at Carlos’ dick. He wishes he'd put it away, or that he'd do this on the bed at least. “I mean, I am now, right?”

Carlos chuckles, hand still on his cock. “No, you're better.”

He'd said that before, at the twister and Scott ran away then, but now it hits Scott low in his belly, like a physical spasm in his insides. 

Carlos smirks at him. He hasn't looked away. “You wanna help?” Scott shivers. It's a look that floods Scott with a sick kind of arousal. He almost wonders is Carlos is doing it on purpose, somehow. 

“I'll let you feed off me again, if you suck me,” Carlos offers, easy-breezy, getting into a sitting position against the wall, legs spread obscenely. His strokes slow, until he's just rubbing his thumb on the head of his cock. “Since you can't seem to look away. Seems fair, you got off on me.”

“Not on _you_,” Scott grumbles but he rolls up on his knees, scooting closer. “Just. Against you.”

In this position, he's going to have to be in his belly to blow him, or least, hands and knees rather than kneeling, and he really wishes Carlos would just get in bed, instead of having him suck him off in a motel bathroom next to a corpse. 

“Have you done this before?” Carlos asks, sensing his hesitation. 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says and doesn't elaborate, how it was only once and the guy at school never spoke to him again and Scott was fine with that, honestly. “I'm not a baby.”

Carlos scoffs but he doesn't say anything else, just sits back and waits for Scott to come to him. Asshole. 

Scott sighs, scooting closer, and gets on his hands and knees when he's in between Carlos’ legs. He doesn't want to meet Carlos’ eyes right now so he just focuses on his cock, reaching for it before lowering his mouth. It's thicker than he expected, just holding it in his hand, and Scott tries to not let that bother him.

He expects Carlos to treat him like dirt, to be honest. Fuck his mouth, pull his hair, call him names. Payback, at least, for Scott trying to tear into him. 

But when Scott leans down and sucks the tip of his cock in his mouth, Carlos just shudders and groans for him, his stomach flexing. His cock is warm, unexpectedly, slick with precome and blood, from his hand earlier, and that makes it actually hot, makes it a welcoming taste in his mouth. Scott wants to chase the taste, lick it off, making a soft suction with his lips as he tries to get more of it. 

He's _not_ good, inexpertly licking around and can't figure out what exactly to do with his tongue, or his hands, leaving them on Carlos’ thighs. Scott hears the thud of Carlos’ head against the wall. Carlos’ hand then slides into his hair and he just _pets_ Scott, stroking his hair, the back of his neck, fingers warm and heavy and it's so nice, Scott can feel himself getting hard again, crotch throbbing the more Carlos touches him. 

This is almost worse than Carlos being a dick. 

Carlos pants above him. “Easy,” Carlos says when Scott tries to take too much, nearly gagging. He settled for wrapping a hand around the base and squeezing while he sucks. “You got time.” He strokes Scott’s chin, then his cheek, cupping it for a moment. “You're doing real good, Scott,” and Scott whines like a dog. He can tell Carlos likes that, when he makes noises, from the way his thighs and abs tense, so he keeps doing it, hums and moans around his cock, like it tastes good (and it does). 

Sucking Carlos off isn't bad, he realizes, even with the embarrassing position. He keeps tasting blood the more he sucks, and he can't manage a deep throat but it doesn't seem to matter. Carlos just holds him there, stroking his hair, his scalp, cupping his chin while Scott gets him off. 

Scott chokes when Carlos comes, the first splash of come surprising him and finally, Carlos gets a little forceful. He makes a choked off groan above him, then a sharp inhale of breath, and he holds Scott down with two hands—one twisting in his hair, the other on the back of his neck, his nails digging hard enough to bleed. 

Somehow, Scott doesn't mind that either. He wonders if it'll leave marks, but even the bite on his neck is gone now, like his body is wholly new. 

Carlos lets him go, pulling away with both hands, and Scott immediately sits back, drawing himself to his knees. He coughs a little and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but he manages to swallow the salty taste down. He stares at Carlos, meeting his eyes, which had taken on a glazed, sleepy quality, like he wasn't all here, like when he dragged him out of the twister. But Scott refuses to let him look away—he reaches out and cups his chin, just like Carlos had earlier. 

“You're a really bad role model,” Scott tells him. 

That draws a bark of laughter from Carlos’ mouth. “I think I'm the role model you need,” he says. 

“Maybe,” Scott says. He starts to undo his jeans—Carlos raises an eyebrow and Scott can't really say what he's doing, just that he doesn't want to come in his pants again, so he shoves his pants and underwear down until his dick’s exposed. Then he removes his hoodie, tired of wearing it, leaving him clad in mostly his shirt. 

Then, gingerly, he gets as close to Carlos’ lap as he can get, with him sitting against the wall, and straddles his thigh. 

Carlos can't take his eyes off him. 

Scott’s insides are buzzing, guilt and revulsion and horror mixed in with a bone deep anticipation, a growing need. He stares at Carlos with open hunger in his eyes, not bothering to pretend to want anything else. 

“My turn?” he asks, eyeing Carlos’s throat. The wound had closed up already. That's a little disappointing. “That's what you said, right?”

Carlos nods and doesn't quite bare his throat to him, but tilts his head to the side, letting Scott know his intentions. 

Scott smiles, all teeth. 

He's never felt as much like a predator as he does now, tearing into Carlos, wrapping his hands around him, clawing into his skin, and holding him close. 

He loves this, he decides. 

***

“You did good, kid,” Carlos purrs, something like pride in his voice that Scott can't scarcely believe, but he smiles, nonetheless, can't help it. 

Carlos smiles back, rifling through the dead man's belongings. They were in his hotel room now, which was cleaner—no corpse for one. “It was a good choice. He has a hotel stay, credit cards, spare clothes, car—we're set for a while.”

“Are we staying here?” Scott asks cautiously, pulling at the bedspread. He's showered since and he's wrapped in the dead man’s clothes—too large on him, shirt sleeves hanging past his wrists. His own bloodied hoodie was back in the other room. He wants to keep it, but it's ruined.

Carlos said culebras could share blood for many reasons (_sexy reasons?_ Scott asked, and Carlos smirked) and that yes, they could feed off each other—but it's not a long term solution. You couldn't and shouldn't trade it for eating live prey. 

His body is buzzing and he can't keep still, eager and excited but he doesn't know for what—blood, Carlos, sex, everything else. He feels almost good enough to forget his whole family is gone.

“No, we need to get out of here,” Carlos says, shaking his head. “Narciso will send people after us when he realizes we're gone. But this is a good start. We can rest another day then head out.” 

“Then where are we going?” Scott asks. 

Carlos shrugs. “Not here.”

Scott waits a moment for him to add more, but Carlos seems to have stopped paying attention. He is staring at the dead guy’s ID. He wants to ask if he even has a plan besides running away, but he thinks pushing it would piss Carlos off. 

Not that Scott cares if he pisses him off, but he likes this truce between them, if he can even call it that. This moment when they've both chosen to get along with each other rather than fight. He hopes it lasts. 

So instead he asks, “Can we go to Bethel?”

Carlos turns to face him, eyebrow raised, head cocked to the side. There is a curious lack of expression on his face and Scott has no idea what he's going to ask. He's about to say _fuck it, never mind, it was just a question_, when Carlos speaks. 

“You know. Your sister ran off with that Gecko.”

He says it casually like it's not a big deal. May as well be an update on the weather. 

Scott tries not to gape. Fails. “_Richie?_”

Carlos laughs, shaking his head. “No, the other one.”

That made even less sense. Scott feels like sitting down, but he's already sitting down so instead he lies down, staring up at the ceiling. 

“So it seems like your sister would rather play bank robber with the _pendejo_ who kidnapped your family than be with you.”

Carlos voice drifts off in the air and Scott feels it, rather than hears it. The words hit him, bit by bit, chipping away. 

“Didn't she leave you in the twister? Did she ever come looking for you?”

“Shut up,” Scott grounds out through gritted teeth. He's not going to cry in front of Carlos. 

Carlos goes on. “I can’t _imagine_ what that must feel like, to be rejected like that.” 

Carlos’ fucking smug face pops up in his vision then, looking down on him, smirking with his eyes. 

“Why are you such a dick?” Scott asks.

Carlos shrugs. “All I'm asking is why you'd want to go back to a place that was never home to you? A place you _know_ you never belonged in?”

Somehow, things don't feel quite real. On the bed, he felt both frightfully young and strangely numb to everything. Like things couldn't really get worse, so why did any of it matter?

All that mattered in the world was him and Carlos now. 

Scott sits up, straightening up, holding on to the truth of that. He clenches his jaw and can feel his fangs, tucked away, ready to tear someone apart. 

“It's not home,” Scott says, meeting his eyes. “I just have unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business?” Carlos asks. 

“Maybe I wanna kill my lacrosse team,” Scott spits out. 

It's easy to say it now, when a few months ago when he got the gun, he convinced himself it was just a “just in case” measure. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. 

He wonders if this is what it feels like, to be the bad guy. _A black goddamn hat._

Carlos laughs and pats him on the shoulder. Like he passed some kind of test. “Alright, kid, I will come with you to your piece of shit town and when you get it out of your system, we do things my way. Clear?”

Scott beams, nodding. “Really?”

He smirks. “Just make it interesting.”

“Interesting?”

Carlos flashes all his teeth. “Make it worth my while.”

Scott holds back a shudder. He bounces off the bed instead, renewed energy in his steps. “So what's your plan then? Are you going to kill Santanico?” 

Carlos shoots him a glare, willing Scott to keep his mouth shut. “Santanico is none of your business,” he snarls, dramatically pointing at him. “You don't get to talk about Santanico unless I ask.”

“Okay, okay,” Scott says, holding his hands up. It didn't seem like none of his business when Carlos had him spy on her. “Are you going to kill Richie?” He follows up. 

“_Yes_,” Carlos says, with relish. 

“Cool,” Scott responds. Remembers Seth’s calm voice as he talked him down from shooting his brother, Richie leaning into his shaking hands. 

Scott doesn't shake anymore. “I'm in.”


End file.
